


Bloody Kismesis

by grayangel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayangel/pseuds/grayangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for skully's pic here: http://squamosal.tumblr.com/post/16099272005/tentabulge-that-is-all</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Kismesis

I don’t know how shit ended up like this. I was pissed off at him and his goddamn screwing around. I thought I was here to tell him to fuck off. At some point during my sufficiently fleshed-out and well-organized explanation of why his jackassery needed to stop before I dropkicked his stupid pink hornless think pan to fucking Derse and back, he punched me in the face. I punched him back, and by completely natural coincidence my claws might have slipped and torn his shirt. And then we were at each other’s throats with a fucking passion like goddamn hoofbeasts locked in a struggle to the death, kicking and punching and clawing and biting. By the time he ripped my shirt off, I was pretty sure we’d just bloodily beaten our way into a black fucking quadrant.

And now we’re like this. My teeth are in his neck and I can taste his candy red blood and fuck if Terezi wasn’t right about red being fucking intoxicating. So this is why she’s always licking her screen when she talks to him. If it were me I’d be slobbering all the fuck over that . . . oh fuck. Fuck, his hands are groping at my tentacular testicles. I mean testicular tentacle. I mean fuck … Oh I did not just make that sound. I didn’t. I fucking swear I didn’t.

“Karkat,” he breathes against my face, and I’m prepared to deny it to the fucking end of the universe if he calls me out on it but his question startles me. “What in the name of all fucking sassed-up puppet phallus is in your pants?”

. . . What the hell? One of his hands is in them now and it’s not like I can really control myself from twisting around him a bit because he clearly knows what he’s doing so what the fuck kind of question is that anyway? I’m about to shove him away because I don’t think I’ll like whatever he’s thinking but something sharp bites into my wrist and forces it back, pining it to the wall as I stumble back onto his couch. Wow, he just nearly truncated my arm with a fucking death sickle.

“What the fuck kind of … nng … question …” The hand in my pants has crept further down to find my nook and fuuuuck. His eyebrows are furrowed under the tops of his shades, part concentration and part curiosity, like my genitals are seriously the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen—or, I guess, fondled, since he’s having trouble getting my pants off one-handed. The sickle digs into my wrist a bit more and I can’t hold in a grunt of pain, but he’s pushed it far enough into the wall that he can let it go and I can’t more my arm without amputating my own hand, the fucker. He finally grabs my pants and yanks them off, and fuck his expression his priceless, even through those goddamn moronic sunglasses he insists on wearing. He smirks, so I twist to wipe it off his face with a well-aimed swing of my free arm, opening a gash on his face. Blood dribbles down his cheek. Candy red blood. I lick my lips and taste it coming from my own broken nose as well.

His hands draw back and fumble with the zipper of his jeans. I run my hand down his arm, digging my claws in just enough to leave four slender trails of red behind them. He moans, the fucking masochist. Fuck that’s hot. Some of his fair hair is sticking to the blood on his ear and neck. I can’t decide whether or not I’m okay with being sprawled under him like this. He’s standing, half-clothed, looming over me while I’m pinned to the wall with a fucking sickle half-reclined on his couch, one leg dangling towards the floor and the other bent flat-footed on the couch, so he’s essentially standing between them.

He gets his pants off, and now I know why he was staring. I’m staring, too, and goddamnit now I’m blushing. He’s smirking again, salaciously, and I only have a moment to note with satisfaction that there’s a hand-shaped bruise with four bloody scratches on his ass where I must have grabbed him through his pants earlier before his fingers are prodding at me again and my think pan falls in the fire. His right arm snakes around my left leg and hoists it up practically to his shoulder and I snarl, because he’s got me at his fucking mercy and there’s already blood seeping down my arm from where my wrist is pinned and oh fuck … fuck, his fingers … fucking inside me …

“Damn, Karkat.” His eyes are intent, staring me down. “I know I’ve got ill moves but you make me sound like your fucking god.” Oh, fuck no. No I do not. There is going to be a serious lack of blood in my vitals judging by the amount of it pooling in my face and crotch and all over the couch and wall and the insufferable prick who’s the cause of it all. He’s leaning over me now, eyes on mine behind his shades as he pushes his fingers deeper, and I take a swipe at his throat. He ducks in time and I grab his face instead. Fuck it, that works too. He can’t talk like this and his hands are both occupied, so there’s nothing he can do about it. I’ve smeared the blood on his face and it’s still trickling from the cut I inflicted, running over the back of my hand. He makes his feelings clear by harshly adding a third finger and my toes curl instinctively as I arch my back with a grunt. Guh, fuck. It feels fucking sinful.

I’m holding his face pretty roughly, claws digging in to keep it in place, but he manages to get his tongue out enough to lick the blood from my palm anyway. It’s with this distraction that he stretches me with two fingers and begins to push inside, moving his hand to take an almost painful grip on my inner thigh and holding me open for him. Fuck. Oh, fuck yes. He’s so hard. Hard and fucking hot. Fuck I hope I’m not saying this out loud. My hand is slipping on his mouth, smearing the blood and saliva as I lose my concentration. Mmmm. Ouch. I think I just bit through my own lip. He’s all the way in now, leaning down over me and I can’t fucking resist. My hand slides past his ear to grip his hair and then his tongue is on my chin, licking the blood trails to my teeth and coaxing my mouth open. Fuck, that’s dangerous. For him I mean. I can bite his tongue off like it’s the fucking larva on top of my bug cone. But I guess he has the advantage of distraction. One movement of his hips and his tongue’s in my mouth before I can comprehend what the fuck just happened, and fuck everything this jackass does just feels so fucking good I’m only opening my mouth for more. His tongue is hot and wet and textured and feels like an oral fucking massage.

He’s moving now, building a steady rhythm, and I dig the heel of my leg foot into his back, trying to pull him closer with it since my hand is still pinned to the fucking wall. He speeds up, slamming me hard and fast, and it takes me a minute to realize I’ve scrunched my eyes shut, the sounds I’m making muffled against his mouth. Then he has to pull back to adjust his grip and get a better angle and the world spins from lack of oxygen because I’m still forgetting to breath. It’s like I’m drowning in blissful agony. My body burns and stings while he stimulates me in ways I never knew existed, pleasure spiking along my spine. Nng, this feels so fucking good. He’s found something inside me that’s driving me crazy and he knows it, the fucker. He rubbing against it, rocking into me with this cocky, knowing look on his face like he’s just stoking his ego at my expense, but fuck if I’m not liking it and I don’t know whether to break his nose or kiss him again.

I compromise by grabbing his left wrist and biting him. He grunts, speeding up and fucking me harder. He doesn’t resist or try to pull away. I only have one hand free but I tilt my head back and use it to pull his hand to my mouth and suck the spot I’ve bitten, teasing it and then licking along his fingers. I don’t really know what I’m doing. Tasting him, sucking him, getting my mouth on him somehow because he can’t seem to fuck me and kiss me at the same time. He’s watching me through half-lidded eyes and he’s panting a bit, like he’s enjoying this more than he’s trying to let on. I close my teeth around his first two fingers and cut them just enough to let him know that I need only twitch my jaw to remove them before turning his hand to suck on his palm. Ughh, fuck he must like that because his thrusts are longer now, like he’s trying to return the favor. Mmmm, yes. Fuck, Dave, yes …

I can’t tell if I’m saying anything out loud or not but he’s got this indecently smug look on his face. I can’t look away from it. He knows I’m close and he slams into me hard, hitting that spot, and my body writhes independent of my will. Mm, fuck! I taste blood; I’ve accidentally bitten him again but I can’t control myself, moaning around the side of his hand. Ah, fuck … fuck, I’m so close, gonna … ughh, Dave, omfkljaer;oik—


End file.
